Rewrite Me

8. Tantrums

Rain

It's late when I push through the door to the apartment, cracking my neck and loving the burn of the strain. My knuckles protest, dried blood crinkling as I flex my fingers.

Setting my gym bag on the floor, I flip the kitchen light on, the idea of a cool glass of water occupying the only remaining space in my brain. Peeling off my sweat-stricken t-shirt, I drape it over my shoulder, reaching into a cabinet for a cup.

Working off my frustration from the last few days took me hours. I needed to feel the pain and push my body to the absolute limit, training harder than necessary, and going way past the gym's usual business hours. Sparring and beating the absolute shit out of a punching bag are the only two ways I'm able to clear my head nowadays.

Malachi insists that it's unhealthy and that I shouldn't crave that type of relief, but nothing else seems to do the trick. Music, women, a cold shower, a deep breath, my favorite TV show—none of it works. It's as if I've hardwired my body to need the relentless agony.

Our new little roommate hasn't been helping my stress either.

Paisley, even the taste of her name on my tongue pisses me off. She doesn't understand what she's doing by being here, or what she will cause. It's already happening, I see it in the way my friends look at her. The longing glances they sneak when they think I'm not looking.

She's beautiful, no warm-blooded man could deny that, but that woman is bad news. The press follows her everywhere she goes. I actually saw a guy ducking behind the bushes the other day at the cafe, not that she was aware. The lengths people will go to get a snapshot of her are laughable.

That's the problem though, Paisley is so used to her lifestyle that she won't even register news outlets beating down my brothers until it's too late. Her parents would be even worse, powerful socialites with more money and influence than I could ever dream of having.

We're well off, Elias has a successful clothing brand, Malachi has his music, and I make a decent living as a professional fighter, but we're nowhere near that level of untouchable. I'm guessing her parents don't know where she is based on a few conversations I've overheard with that mouthy friend of hers, but I don't think they'd be too happy to learn she's living with men like us. I don't doubt that they'd create a storm about it, one that would ruin our reputations.

No, Paisley is drama-filled, reckless, and absolutely no good. She'll tear us apart and not even realize it.

Refilling my glass and taking in a few more gulps, I allow the cool liquid to chill my heated body. The floorboards creak and I spin around, hackles raised, but all I find is a wide-eyed Paisley.

"Sorry, I didn't realize anyone was still awake." She winces, an apology spilling from her mouth.

Her eyes don't connect with mine though, and I take notice of her wandering gaze as it takes in my chest and abs. A blush reddens her cheeks, but she looks anyway, the attention heating my skin.

Sleep-ridden, her hair is tousled into an updo, raspberry waves haphazardly spilling out to frame her face. She's wearing another one of those skimpy night sets, but this one is green, and God help me, the color does wonders for her complexion.

Her shorts leave little to the imagination, her long legs on full display, a sliver of her toned torso visible beneath her cropped tank top. As I rake my eyes farther up, it dawns on me that she probably isn't wearing a bra either by the looks of it.

Fuck.

Clearing my throat, I busy myself with placing my cup in the dishwasher, content to ignore her presence. My body's physical reaction to her only pisses me off, something I don't need, not after I was so close to finally calming down.